Christmas Isn't What It Used To Be
by Dustfingers-Angel
Summary: (Featuring my OC) It's been months since Sherlock died. John's with family over the holidays and Charlie has been left alone; and she doesn't cope well alone. Part of my Charlie James series. Disclaimer; i don't own Sherlock. involves blood/ injury and distress
1. Lonely Nights

I sat, curled up in the chair opposite from where he used to sit. I was wearing the black satin pyjamas John had bought me at my birthday. There hadn't really been anything since it happened, no big cases, no events, not even boring receptions that Mycroft liked to drag me to - a few simple cases but even they were dull, not even the cold cases Greg brought me were interesting any more.

I had put the radio on for background noise, seeing as John was staying with Mary. It was two weeks until Christmas and I wasn't in the mood for silence. Nothing had really changed. Lestrade had helped me keep everything they had wanted to take away as evidence, so very few things had actually been taken. The skull was still on the fireplace, now it wore his scarf – I had gotten that back, the coat too. I had the coat over me now, not wearing it, I used it as a blanket sometimes.

I found myself staring into space, having lost track of time long ago. My mind began to tune back in to the reality of the flat around me. I could hear traffic outside, a police car some way off and the radio – the radio quickly overpowered everything. The song that was playing was familiar to me as the intro played but it was as the lyrics started I felt a wave of emotion hit me.

_I'll be home for Christmas,_

_You can plan on me._

_Please have snow and mistletoe_

_And presents 'neath the tree…_

I leaped up from the chair, throwing off the coat. I bounded across the room.

_Christmas Eve will find me_

_Where the love light gleams._

_I'll be home for Christmas_

_And you'll be in my dreams…_

I began furiously pushing buttons on the modern radio, trying to make it shut up. I never used to use the radio, only since the tv filled up with report on...

_I'll be home this Christmas, Darling_

_I'll be coming home to you…_

Tears began to stream down my face as I grew even more frustrated. I just wanted it to stop. It had to stop.

_And there's nothing in the world_

_Gonna get in my-_

I smashed the radio off the wall, killing the music. Pieces of plastic battered off the wall, bouncing back around me. I stumbled back, I heard a cracking. Broken glass pierced the sole of my foot, wrenching a scream from my throat. I tripped backward, landing hard on the floor, shards of glass stabbing into my right palm and legs. I held back a scream, adrenaline allowing me to scramble as side of the glass. I wrenched the two shards of glass from my hand and clamped it to my stomach in a pathetic attempt to stop the bleeding. I tore out whatever glass I could from my legs and foot with gritted teeth. Tears streamed down my eyes from pain, but primarily my loss. Sherlock's death had made me bitter towards every happy thing; it seemed anything could set me off again – it was disgusting. After wiping the blood from my uncut hand, trembling, I reached forward and carefully took a firm hold of the picture from the remains of the broken frame.

Leaning back against the wall I stared at the photograph. The image had been captured by John the winter after we all moved in together. It was of Sherlock and I; Sherlock was lying on the sofa with me curled up, asleep, on his chest. There was a sleepy smile across his face and his hand rested on my waist. Before I'd fallen asleep Sherlock had wrapped his scarf around my neck and pulled his coat over us like a blanket. I blinked back tears and smiled down at the memory.

_Knock, knock, knock._

The sound was quiet to my right. _What? Who was that? No-one's coming… were they? What day's it? Saturday – so… Greg. Oh._

I cleared my throat, about to call to him when the door opened and the DI's head peaked round, "Charlie…?" Seeing the surrounding chaos, his face paled, "Oh Charlie" Coming in and shutting the door he crouched in front of me, "What happened?" I looked up at him silently, unable to answer – he would never understand.

"You're hurt" he must have seen the blood, "Charlie, tell me, where are you hurt?"

I swallowed painfully and showed him my hand, "And my legs too" I croaked. I couldn't even look at him.

Somehow he lifted me without hurting me further. He carried me to the kitchen and set me down on the central counter. "Where's the first aid box, Charlie?"

"In the top cupboard to the right of the oven… Greg, I'm sorry"

He paused in his search for the first aid box and looked back at me, "Sorry? You've got nothing to be sorry for." He watched me for a moment, "Are you sure it's in here?"

I nodded, "Yeah, behind that brown box– be careful with it"

"What's in… you know what, never mind" He moved the brown box carefully out the way then retrieved the first aid box. Greg brought it back over to me, "Let me see you hand" I held it out to him; I winced at the antiseptic cream and bit back a snarl as he tightly bound up my hand. Greg then quickly did the same for my foot. "Thank you, Greg" I said quietly.

"It's alright, someone's got to do it" he smiled, "Right, now lie on your side so I can see your legs" The counter was clear on this side for a change, Sherlock had planned on needing the space for an experiment, before…

I lay back then onto my side and Greg rolled my trouser legs up to see how much damage I'd done. He grimaced. I twisted to see my newest injuries; blood flowed from five points across my calves, streaking down my legs. I sighed, "Get on with it them" I grumbled.

Greg was careful but thorough, cleaning each wound then taping gauze patches over the cuts before bandaging over them to keep them secure. When he was done I sat back up and he looked me up and down. "Right," he turned deadly serious, "Charlotte, are you okay?"

I swallowed. I blinked.

"Charlie, please" he pressed, his hands now on my shoulders, "you haven't left the flat in over a week"

I glanced away, staring at the floor, "You would go outside either if people looked at you the way they do me."

"…still?" Greg faltered. I looked back and nodded. He sighed. "Charlie, what happened today?"

"I got angry, it was stupid, then the picture was knocked over and this happened," I gestured at my hand and legs. "It was just, just a stupid thing…"

"What caused it this time?" He asked softly.

I drew in a deep breath and slowly said, "I'll Be Home For Christmas"

He blinked, frowned, then it hit him, "Ah… Come on, let's get you a seat" Greg helped me limp through to the sofa before clearing up the broken frame and glass – he was about to put the whole bundle in the bin when I quickly stopped him.

"No wait!"

"What?"

"The picture – don't bin it. Can I have it here?"

Greg came over and I slipped the photograph out from beneath the shattered glass. He didn't even ask why, as soon as he saw the picture he simply knew. Soon enough all trace of broken picture frames and radios were gone.

"I'll ask Mrs Hudson to clean the rest up on my way out"

"Thank you"

"You don't need to keep thanking me. I've got a box of old cold cases at the office if you want them, by the way"

I nodded, "That would be good, yeah"

Greg stood awkwardly for a moment, like he wanted to leave but something was stopping him. He turned to me, near exasperated, "Charlie, you know I'm always here to talk if you need to, don't you?" I couldn't find anything to say. "I'm pretty much always at Scotland Yard – I can get you whatever you want, whatever you need, really, pretty much anything"

"Greg" I said softly.

"Just… please – I want to make sure you're alright"

"I'm fine" I lied.

He perched at the edge of the sofa, "Charlie, could you do me a favour?" I nodded. "I know it's not necessary, but please phone me, just once a week, so I know that you're doing okay, please?

I sighed, but smiled, "Of course"

He gave my uninjured hand a quick squeeze, "Thank you"

Greg Lestrade had no idea that he was the third person to ask this of me – well, Mycroft had basically demanded it, but Molly had asked quite timidly. And now there was Greg, and of course going out to lunch every Tuesday with Mrs H to that little coffee shop where people didn't stare too much too often. And John, I text John.

Yes, they still stared – I was the girl who was Sherlock Holmes' best friend, and everyone had an opinion. _I helped him, or he threatened me, or I was too stupid to see what had been going on._ But not Mycroft or Molly or Greg or John, that's why I would phone them, because they'd seen the truth. And I pretended to be okay; I kept up the charade and committed to these obligations. But it didn't change anything. Sherlock Holmes was dead. Sherlock left me. And there was nothing I could do about that now.


	2. City Lights

When I left 221B it was 11:30 on Christmas Eve. I couldn't bare staying in. I limped aimlessly for so long, I didn't care where I was or what time it was or where I was going.

A young child was walking down the street towards me. A boy, no older than 10, head down, hands in pockets, collar up against the cold. He shouldn't be out alone at a time like this. When he was only a few yards in front of me, he tripped and stumbled forward. I ran and caught him before his frail young body hit concrete.

"Are you okay?" I stood him up, kneeling on the cold, damp ground.

"Y- yeah" he looked shocked and slightly afraid.

"It's okay - I work for the police" I told him.

He nodded, still wary, but more comfortable now. "What are you doing out here by yourself so late?" I asked cautiously, know that I should probably take him to Scotland Yard.

He shook his head, "You first. What's your name and what are you doing out?"

I considered the child, so bold for his age. "Okay" I answered slowly, "my name's Charlie. I didn't want to stay in alone on Christmas Eve so I went a walk"  
He stared at me, considering my answer with the utmost scrutiny.

"Fair enough. I'm Mark - my step Mum's high and my Dad's out so I left for a bit; they won't notice that I'm gone anyway"

I blinked, surprised by his blunt answer. Nodding, I said, "Okay Mark"

Mark looked at me again, "Why didn't you want to stay in? How come you're alone?"

I glanced away, trying to think how to phrase my next sentence. I wanted him to know the truth - Hell, i wanted everyone to know that!

"Um, I used to live with my best friend. But there was this guy who… He told a lot of lies about my friend then got my friend killed, so now I'm alone."

Mark looked at me completely entranced. "Go on"

I paused, searching for words "I miss my friend. I want him back. Without him… I'm lost, I don't know what I'm doing, what I'm living for… There's nothing to go home to any more" I was rambling. Half of that I wouldn't have even said to Molly or Lestrade, I doubt I would have let any of it out to John, but for some reason I confided in the kid.

There was silence for a while before Mark nodded. "You're gonna take me to the police now, aren't you?"

I considered the boy, his situation, "No - not unless you want me to"

"Then what?"

I sucked in a breath of cold air, thinking "Pick a hotel Mark, any hotel in London"

His eyes widen, "Really?"

"Yeah - where do you want to go?" He thought for a while before giving me the name of a 3 star hotel his Gran had taken him to last year. "Come on then" I hailed a taxi and we got in; we got there quickly and I paid the driver - luckily having just enough money to do so.

I organised a pent suite room for him, paying it to Mycroft's account (I'd probably repay him later somehow). I paid for the first night and told Mark that he'd to phone me every day about noon until he wanted to go home - every day I would pay for the room again (or convince Mycroft to take my side and do so himself). I bought him presents the next day and had them sent up to him. I put him under police protection, meaning that only he could let people know where he was if he wanted. I felt the need to protect this boy so strongly.

I took Mark up to his room, walking him along to the door. Just before he went inside, he stopped and looked up at me, "Charlie,"

"Yeah?"

He looked at me with sad eyes that reminded me so much of my brothers, "Find something to live for this Christmas"


	3. index

This story is one of a series. In chronological order they are:

\- Meeting Sherlock Holmes

\- Back to Work

\- Save Me from my Nightmares

\- New Year

\- Study In Pink

\- Lazy Morning

\- Tragedy Shaped Her

\- An Average Day in 221B

\- Christmas Isn't What It Used To Be

\- Killing Yourself Slowly And Calling It Coping

\- Left Broken by his Fall

\- Reunited

I'll update this as more are published :)


End file.
